Only One Love; or, Who Was the Heir. Garvice Charles

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      After the lapse of ten minutes the woodman and the woodman’s guest re-entered. The latter had exchanged his wet clothes for a suit of Gideon’s, which, though it was well-worn velveteen, failed to conceal the high-bred air of its present wearer.

      Meanwhile Mrs. Rolfe had been busily spreading the remains of the supper.

      “’Tis but plain fare, sir,” she said; “but you are heartily welcome.”

      “Thanks. It looks like a banquet to me,” he added, with the short laugh which seemed peculiar to him. “I haven’t tasted food, as tramps say, since morning.”

      “Dear! dear!” exclaimed the wife.

      Una, calling up a long line of heroes, thought first of Ivanhoe, then – and with a feeling of satisfaction – of Hotspur.

      Figure matched face. Though but twenty-two, the frame was that of a trained athlete – stalwart, straight-limbed, muscular; and with all combined a grace which comes only with birth and breeding.

      Wet and draggled, he looked every inch a gentleman – in Gideon’s suit of worn velveteen he looked one still.

      Silent and motionless, Una watched him.

      “Yes,” he said, “I got some lunch at the inn – ‘Spotted Boar’ at Wermesley – about one o’clock, I suppose. I have never felt so hungry in my life.”

      “Wermesley?” said the wife. “Then you came from – ”

      “London, originally. I got out at Wermesley, meaning to walk to Arkdale; but that appears to be easier said than done, eh?”

      Gideon did not answer; he seemed scarcely to hear.

      “I can’t think how I missed the way,” he went on. “I found the charcoal burner’s hut, and hurried off to the left – ”

      “To the right, I said,” muttered Gideon.

      “Right, did you? Then I misunderstood you. Anyhow, I lost the right path, and wandered about until I came back to this cottage.”

      “And you were going to stay at Arkdale? ’Tis but a dull place,” said Mrs. Rolfe.

      “No; I meant taking the train from there to Hurst Leigh – Hurst Leigh,” repeated the young man. “Do you know it? Ah,” he went on, “don’t suppose you would; it’s some distance from here. Pretty place. I am going to see a relative. My name is Newcombe – Jack Newcombe I am generally called – and I am going on a visit to Squire Davenant.”

      Gideon Rolfe sprang to his feet, suddenly, knocking his chair over, and strode into the lamplight.

      The young man looked up in surprise.

      “What’s the matter?” he asked.

      With an effort Gideon Rolfe recovered himself.

      “I – I want a light,” he said; and leaning over the lamp, he lit his pipe. Then turning toward the window, he said: “Una, it is late; go to bed now.”

      She rose at once and kissed the old couple, then pausing a moment, held out her hand to the young man, who had risen, and stood regarding her with an intent, but wholly respectful look.

      But before their hands could join, the woodman stepped in between them, and waving her to the stairs with one hand, forced the youth into his seat with the other.

      CHAPTER III

      A hearty meal after a long fast invariably produces intense sleepiness.

      No sooner had the young gentleman who was called, according to his own account, Jack Newcombe, finished his supper than he began to show palpable signs of exhaustion.

      He felt, indeed, remarkably tired, or be sure he would have demanded the reason of the woodman’s refusal to allow his daughter to shake hands.

      For once in a way, Jack – who was also called “The Savage” by his intimate friends – allowed the opportunity for a quarrel to slide by, and very soon also allowed the pipe to slide from his mouth, and his body from the chair.

      Rousing himself with a muttered apology, he found that the woodman alone remained, and that he was sitting apparently forgetful of his guest’s presence.

      “Did you speak?” said Jack, rubbing his eyes, and struggling with a very giant of a yawn. Gideon looked round.

      “You are tired,” he said, slowly.

      “Rather,” assented the Savage, with half-closed eyes; “it must have been the wind. I can’t keep my head up.”

      The woodman rose, and taking down from a cupboard a bundle of fox-skins, arranged them on the floor, put a couple of chair-cushions at the head to serve as pillows, and threw a riding-cloak – which, by the way, did not correspond with a woodman’s usual attire, and pointed to the impromptu bed.

      “Thanks,” said Jack, getting up and taking off his coat and boots.

      “It is a poor bed,” remarked the woodman, but the Savage interrupted him with a cheerful though sleepy assurance that it needed no apologies.

      “I could sleep on a rail to-night,” he said, “and that looks comfortable enough for a king! Fine skins! Good-night!” and he held out his hand.

      Gideon looked at it, but refusing it, nodded gravely.

      “You won’t shake hands!” exclaimed the Savage, with a little flush and an aggrieved tone. “Come, isn’t that carrying the high and imposing rather too far, old fellow? Makes one feel more ashamed than ever, you know. Perhaps I’d better march, after all.”

      “No,” said Gideon, slowly. “It is not that I owe you any ill-will for your presence here. You are welcome, but I cannot take your hand. Good-night,” and he went to the stairs.

      At the door, however, he paused, and looked over his shoulder.

      “Did you say that – Squire Davenant was your uncle, Mr. Newcombe?”

      “Eh – uncle? Well, scarcely. It’s rather difficult to tell what relationship there is between us. He’s a sort of cousin, I believe,” answered Jack, carelessly, but yet with a touch of gravity that had something comical about it. “Rum old boy, isn’t he? You know him, don’t you?”

      Gideon shook his head.

      “Oh, I thought you did by the way you looked when I mentioned his name just now. Good thing you don’t, for you might have something to say about him that is not pleasant, and though the old man and I are not turtle doves just now, I’m bound to stand up for him for the sake of old times.”

      “You have quarreled?” the old man said; but the Savage had already curled himself up in the fox-skins, and was incapable of further conversation.

      Gideon Rolfe crossed the room, and holding the candle above his head, looked down at the sleeper.

      “Yes,” he muttered, “it’s the same face – they are alike! Faces of angels and the hearts of devils. What fate has sent him here to-night?”

      Though СКАЧАТЬ